Fade Away
by amorae
Summary: The unknown…that would be interesting, wouldn’t it? For the living the unknown is death, but for the dead the unknown is to live. And what did Peter Pan say? “Death is just the next greatest adventure,” or something along those lines. ONESHOT


Don't worry, this took really only three hours out of my time of writing Breakdown. -sighs- I had to write it, though; it was like eating at my brain going "nuu don't you dare forget about me write me damnit" so I finally succumbed to it and wrote the fricken thing xD

This idea was brought to me by the song 100 Years. I just pictured the main character...yeah. -zips lips-

Also, my friend wolves-eye's story Tears in Tokyo (go read it now--it's fluffy InuKag!) gave me a bit of the idea--don't ask why but I was reading it and I began to form the idea while reading it. I thought I would mention the story because I must thank her as well as the story.

This is written in Danny's POV, in **first person**. Don't flip; I know first person storys suck, but if I didn't put it in first person it would seem...eh...too weird in all italics. So...yeah. LOL. Forgive me, please!

**Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom, but I'm pretty sure I'm the first person to write about this so...yeah. xD I guess you can say the story idea's mine?**

Okay. Grab a tissue and enjoy! -bows-

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_How cliché, _I think bitterly, surprised that I can think so angrily still. _My life is flashing before my eyes and all I can do is sit here and watch. After all these years of being my own person I result to something so…normal it's sickening. How come in my last moments of life I must do _this, _of all things? _

I'm five in my first memory, tiny little sneakers tied tightly to my feet. My white shirt hangs limply off of my shoulders, going down past the waist line and past the pockets of my first pair of blue jeans. My hair's as messy—and black—as it is now, although it's not caked with blood in my memory. My mother, ten years younger, opened her arms and took the running me into them, only to stand up and twirl in circles as I giggled like a small child.

My dad came up to me, wearing the same orange jumpsuit as always. My mom was wearing her blue one also, but in this memory it's pulled down, revealing her pale skin and her sparkling eyes. My dad was holding a disgruntled Jazz's hand, her eyes brimmed with tears, her lips pulled into a full pout. I looked down at her, my good mood going sour from her sad expression.

We had a good relationship until she turned eight and started getting interested in the human mind.

"Aw, what's wrong, Jasmine?" my mother asked, putting me back down on the hard cement. I walked towards my bigger sister and grasped her hand tightly, my fingers already much larger than hers. Her smile was watery, but it was still a smile. She pointed to the young children in the sandbox and pointed to her hair.

"They made fun of my orange hair, mummy," she whined, fingering it as if were candy on fire. She had always loved her hair—it was one of her biggest prides—but she was constantly being made fun of it, seeing how red and orange hair is so rare. My mom smiled sympathetically and placed a comforting hand on her head.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she purred.

"Yeah! They're just jealous because they don't have pretty hair like yours," I quipped, making my dad pat my head kindly. Jazz hugged me, and the four of us walked home, me jumping all over my parents, Jazz walking hand in hand with my mom and dad.

The second major memory to flash in my mind was my first day of first grade, where I met Sam and Tucker for the first time.

Sam, even at six, was gothic. Her little long-sleeved shirt was black with a grey skull on it, and her pants were a deep navy. Her rain boots—she had to wear them because it was raining on the first day—were black, but little specks of white showed up to make me think she had taken a black marker and scribbled the black coloring on them.

Tucker held a toddler's first laptop—one of those ones that taught you how to spell 'cat' and 'book' and taught you how to add 'five plus five' to create 'ten.' He tugged on his mom's hand, tears forming in his eyes. His mother smiled sympathetically at him and threw on his red beret. "Daddy told me to give you this," she told him happily. She kissed his fingers and walked out of the room.

I waved to my mother and father, who were standing in the doorway, and lifted my backpack further onto my shoulders. I walked up to Sam—I hadn't seen her in kindergarten—and waved to her.

"Hi!" I said brightly.

She punched me in the face.

Tucker came up to me, defending me fully. "That wasn't nice…Samantha," he said angrily, his eyebrow's pulling together in six-year-old fury. He had gotten her name off of the nametag. Sam flinched and socked him in the face also.

"My name's Sam!" she snarled, rubbing her knuckles threateningly. Tucker and I exchanged glances and ran away from her, terrified and not wanting to get our teeth ripped out by her claws.

"What's your name?" Tucker asked, panting, as we hung up our backpacks at the end of the room. I smiled brightly at him.

"Danny! Yours?"

"Tucker," he said, equally as happy as me. Lucky for us, our teacher placed us together—or semi together. Unluckily for us, Sam was in the middle.

About a month after the punching incident Sam, Tuck and I became friends. And we'd been best friends since that day.

The sun bakes my paling skin, but regardless it pales even more as my life source drains away from my body. Gashes are strewn wildly up and down my body, all numbing as my nerves give up sending distressed signals to my brain—from injury or defeat, I'm not sure. All I know is I no longer feel pain as I stare up at the branches of the weeping willow tree, not exactly seeing every detail but knowing it's a tree branch.

I cough, sending blood dribbling down my white and red T-shirt. The memories continue as I slowly die.

I'm eight and I'm in third grade. Dash picked on me, but I ignored him constantly; I had Sam and Tucker, what more did I need?

This was the year I realized that the fact my parents were ghost hunters should have embarrassed me. We had to tell the class what our parents did, and I walked to the center of the room, proudly beaming, and declared my parents were the world's leading ghost hunters.

The class erupted in raucous laughter, all but Sam and Tucker who looked at each other fidgety. Tucker's red beret was perched on his head, and Sam was now wearing her black, purple, and green plaid skirt, but a simple black T-Shirt instead of the belly button one she wore now. Even the teacher laughed.

"You're Maddie and Jack Fenton's _son_?" she had giggled.

That wasn't my best year.

In the next memory I'm in fifth grade and I started to avoid my parents, trying to get away from them and their strangeness. That was also the year I figured out that I liked Sam a little more than just a friend.

I tried to hide it, completely embarrassed by it. I remember thinking, _what if I ruin our awesome friendship? I won't be able to live with myself! _It made my ears burn when I looked at Sam, and for a while I couldn't look at her—I knew I had to get my feelings under control. And I did; by sixth grade I had semi forgotten that I had a crush on her, and by Jr. High I started swooning over Paulina.

To Sam's discomfort, however.

Tucker just thought I was smart; he liked Paulina also, as well as about thirty other girls in the seventh grade, twenty in the eighth, and a few that were in ninth grade. Sam told him he was a womanizing jerk. He said thanks.

I laugh at the memory, feeling as if my throat is going to explode. More blood erupted from my dry lips, caking my chin. I muster up the strength to reach my weak hand off the asphalt to touch my head. I feel around for the major wound—the one Dan had given me—and find it. But I can't feel my fingers probing, oddly enough. I look at my fingers, pulling them away from the gash, and sure enough it's covered in dark blood. The blood dribbles senselessly onto my chest, soaking through. I can feel it's coldness as it caresses my skin gently.

The next memory is a memory I don't necessarily care for, and I know it will lead to more and more painful memories.

Sam was telling me that I just _had_ to be interested in a Ghost Portal. I told her I wasn't, but she could see through my flimsy lie, so I curiously pulled on the jumpsuit and walked in, accidentally pressing an 'on' button and sending my life into a downwards spiral.

_That's not fair, _I fight inwardly. _Being a ghost isn't all that fun but it's not _that_ bad, either._

The memory continues to me waking up, realizing that I have ghost powers. I flipped, as would be expected, but there was nothing I could do—people say the world creates champions, and those champions are supposed to help protect the simple mundane people.

Unfortunately for me, the world created its champion into a half dead human who was merely fourteen, knowing that someday the teenager would die an unfair death.

But, try as I might, I can't necessarily regret becoming a ghost. It was fun at some points, after all. After my whole dilemma the first few months…I became used to it and accepted my fate. That's saying something, considering how some people can't accept the simplest things of life.

The memories build, flashing from meeting Skulker to the Ghost Writer to my first encounter with Dan. Clockwork's first rather sinister appearance, my fight with Eragon, my two fake-out make-out's with Sam. And finally my last memory, the last one I will ever have—the last fight with Dan.

It started out like a normal week; I went to school, Sam and Tucker helped me, I was lethargic and depressed teenager. That is, until Dan invariably knocked me out with a huge stick and overshadowed me.

He terrorized everyone, revealing the fact that I was, in fact, Danny Fenton and tormenting everyone I knew and loved (and he was nice to those I didn't particularly care for). Dan eventually let me control my body, saying we would fight to the death—he had screwed up my life, but if I still wanted it then he would let me try my luck against him once more and fight for it.

Needless to say, I jumped at the opportunity of being free again. I didn't even _think _of the possibility of death; as all fifteen year olds, I didn't expect to die just yet, even though I'm fully aware that my ghost powers are going to be the end of me—as they are right now. I just never thought…that at fifteen I'd _die._

But maybe I'll become a ghost. It's a depressing and sad hope, but it's still a little light at the end of the tunnel for me. If I do, I can always visit my parents, Jazz, Tucker…and Sam.

My thoughts soften as Sam's perfect profile enters the hazy mass that is my mind, my heart spluttering faintly. Unfortunately for my mind, but thankfully for my heart, I re-awakened to my crush on Sam this past year, only to find that it was much stronger than it was when I was in fifth grade. Now it burns to look at her beauty, but at least I _can_.

I realize I'm never going to see Sam again—or at least I'll never see her through human eyes ever again. This saddens me deeply, but if I become a ghost, then at least I will be able to see her; whether or not my burning desire for her will carry on with me is a whole different story.

_So sappy, _I chuckle inside my mind, unable to actually chuckle for fear of coughing up more blood.

_Death…_it's such a powerful word. It causes people to flinch, to tear, to slam their fists down on tables and tell the person who dared utter the word to shut the _hell_ up; but why? Is it just fear of the unknown? Or is it that every heart knows more than it gives away, and sends signals to the brain to be terrified of death?

I'm about to find out.

But my thoughts wander. How did Ember die? What was she like in her past life? Was she a moody and sullen teenager who loved music and singing—only to slit her wrists too many times and die? Was Skulker a tiny thing (like Napoleon?), or was he actually a tall person (like Hitler?) and felt the need to be tall even in the afterlife? Was Technus one of the people societies shunned for his crazy ideas on technology in the nineteenth century?

Maybe Ember, Skulker, Technus, Eragon, and all those other ghosts aren't so bad. Maybe their just confused…like me. Maybe the fact that they haunt the human world is just a result for _their _undying fear of the unknown; after all, a ghost is dead—they don't know what it's like to be human, to be so tangible as to run into a wall if you're not careful. Their memories of being a human, at best, are probably just fleeting glimpses of their death bed; nothing more. They may remember what they liked, but that must be it. Otherwise they wouldn't terrorize the humans.

The unknown…that would be interesting, wouldn't it? For the living the unknown is death—but for the dead the unknown is to live. And what did Peter Pan say? "Death is just the next greatest adventure," or something along those lines.

Lying on my back, I feel my heart jump slightly as it fights to make enough blood to circulate my whole body, but it can't; there are too many cuts and gashes along me. My lungs work weakly, trying their hardest and making me wheeze. The only thing I can do is let my eyes wander, growing hazier and hazier as my body becomes limp.

I now realize how true Peter Pan's line is. As sappy as it seems, it's true. No one's sure what death will bring…so why can't it be considered an adventure?

I, as a half human, half ghost hybrid, know only too well about the lines humans are aloud to cross. Am I a champion, or just a stupid human who dared set foot on different turf; am I an example of all the things that can happen to those who are interested in ghosts? Was it a _crime_ that I hid my powers from my family, and that I didn't let others see my powers? Maybe I should have. Because if Vlad and I are examples of what can happen when humans step their toes into the works of death, then who will know? How can we prevent people from this cruel twist of fate?

I know only too well that I'm some sort of freak. I'm dead, but still alive. My temperature declares me stone-cold, yet here I am, lying on the soft grass and staring up at the shaded canopy of trees. I'm a ghost, yet a human. It's so unfair…yet, at the same time, I can't hate God for damning me to half-death.

After a year and a couple of months, I guess I've finally come to terms with my ghostly self.

Too bad it's on my deathbed.

Am I necessarily lucky that I'm half ghost? I can't help but wonder if it's a blessing of some sort. Yeah, it eventually caused me an early death—a death before I could even get out of sophomore year—but…no other human, excluding Vlad Masters, has ever had the chance to live and die at the same time. The past year I have changed so much; it's almost unbelievable. I went from a shy, weak, moody freshman to an ass kicking, ghost hunting, understanding human-ghost hybrid. Maybe it is a blessing. It opened my eyes, as well as teaching me that life can always get worse than having double science on a Wednesday afternoon.

My eyes slowly close. It's too much work to keep them open, and anyway, I can't see anything, so what's the point?

Now I kind of wish I could keep living. You know, to help protect all of Amity Park with my new insight on my ghost half. But I know that's not possible. I'm going to die, and for once in my life, I'm not afraid of the unknown.

I'm already half dead, and the pain is gone. So why should I be fearing death? It can't be any worse than the chill I feel when I go ghost. And, who knows? Maybe death is just a faint where your heart stops and you are transported into the ghost zone. Maybe after the initial pain, it's a painless crossing into the other side.

Blissfulness consumes me as I let my cracked and bloody lips pull into a slight smile. The inevitable is happening; I'm dying. I can tell only by how my breaths are becoming slower and slower apart, and much weaker than before. My heart beat stutters every few seconds, slowing down almost slower than my breathing.

Now I'll finally be free. The burden of being half ghost is gone; I _will _be a full ghost, as all humans must join the ranks of the dead sooner than later. Just because I'm dieing when I'm fifteen doesn't make me any more special than the grandfather or grandmother someone else lost only minutes ago. I'm no different; I'm just younger, with the special flare of being half ghost. Or, maybe considering my current position, half human.

I'll miss Sam, Tucker, Mom, Dad, Jazz, maybe even Dash, Paulina, and Mr. Lancer. For some reason I keep thinking I'll miss Mr. Lancer a lot, but not as much as my family and friends—and especially Sam.

I never did get to tell her how much I loved her. Maybe as a ghost I can write that I love her on a chalk board or something. Something that will let her know that I'm still watching her, as stalkerish as that sounds.

I snort in my mind at the thought of her freaking over a ghost stalker, and willingly start to let myself go.

I've accepted my fate; I'm going to go without a fight now. I'm going to cross to the other side, whether that means becoming a ghost or fading into oblivion, with a smile on my face and a positive attitude. Who ever said that just because you're dying…you had to be depressed?

To be honest I'm now beginning to feel happy, or somewhat happy. _I'm _living the unknown; I'll find out what it's like to become a full ghost, as I should have that lonely night back in freshman year. But I know I've been living the unknown for the past year. For some reason fate wanted me alive, and it kept me alive, helping me fight through the many battles I've witnessed and more. It helped me heal faster than most humans (though that might have been just a side effect of the ghost powers), and it also helped doctors from staying away from me. Surely if doctors saw my temperature, they'd freak out and put me under constant surveillance—and stop me from eating all those ice cubes. But, now fate has decided that my time has come, and that this is the right time for me to die. I only hope Sam, Tucker, Valerie, Jazz, and my parents can protect Amity Park from the ever escalating ghost threat. I'll come to help, but I'll definitely have to watch out; I don't want anyone hunting me down.

My lungs cease to work. My heart splutters sadly once…twice…three more times before it finally gives into its fate and stops.

My head spins slightly; my body starts to feel leaden as it always does when you hold your breath too long.

And slowly, slowly, I fade away.

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Review, please! I want to know what you guys think. I know this was a rather risky oneshot...but risks are good. -winks- I hope you guys liked it. 


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